


The Journey of a Thousand Miles

by SerDinnerRoll



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26336152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerDinnerRoll/pseuds/SerDinnerRoll
Summary: The tale of Boromir's journey to Imladris.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Théodred
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	The Journey of a Thousand Miles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LesbiansforBoromir (Erranruin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erranruin/gifts).



> For Erran, whose love of Boromir has inspired more of my own.

It was early. Very early. Sunrise was some ways off, hidden behind the ever growing shadows of Mordor. The sky was a mix of deep purple, flecked with stars, and an ever growing deep muted blue.

Boromir leaned on the parapet outside the Houses of Lore on the fifth level of Minas Tirith. His eyes stared ahead and the left, surveying Osgiliath and southern Ithilien beyond the Anduin. He bit at his thumb, a habit of his when it came to thinking of strategy, something he'd been mulling over for two weeks now.

Eastern Osgiliath had come under sudden attack, long prepared by the Enemy. The attack came in the early morning hours, Easterlings from the North, Haradrim from the South, and a host of uruks from the Morgul Vale. The defenses of the eastern side held for a few hours till the coming of the dreaded black horsemen. And all his planning and the training of his men fell away in a blind panic. Boromir counted himself lucky that he and his brother had escaped and that the Great Bridge had been destroyed, granting some respite. But for how long?

He glared across the river at the shadows. Mordor was stronger than had been thought, though the threat had always loomed and the forests of Ithilien remained a dangerous wild. New defenses would need to be raised along the western banks of the river, Cair Andros and Western Osgiliath to become hardened strongholds. The Rangers of Ithlien would need to rely on smaller hidden strikes than the larger attacks to better retain secrecy and supplies. And not only the present but the future required his thought. Rumors abounded along the coasts that the Corsairs of Umbar were growing bolder despite their lessened numbers, preying on what ships they could find abroad, even within sight of Pelargir. With such worries, how many men could he call up from the coastlands? And even if he did, would they even come?

These worries whirled in his head, like a storm that kept returning every day. And on top of that... there was the dream.

That damn dream he and his brother had had, the night before the attack on Osgiliath. Faramir took it as a sign, a signal of providence. Boromir... Boromir did not know what to think of it.

When Faramir discussed it, the detail he could recall was always striking. Yet whenever it came to Boromir's mind it was... hazy, as though seen through glazed glass. But the words rang clear. 

_Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
_ _There shall be counsels taken  
_ _Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
_ _There shall be shown a token  
_ _That Doom is near at hand,_  
_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
_ _And the Halfling forth shall stand._

On their return to Minas Tirith, Faramir had been quick to bring it before their father, to see what he might make of it. All their father could say for certain was that Imladris was an elven holdout, located far to the North, where dwelt the great lore master, Elrond Half-Elven, the distant relative of the old kings. But of the other things mentioned, he did not know or simply did not tell them.

Oddities, these words, Boromir mulled over. A broken sword was nothing new, he had snapped one or two on Uruk's helms before. Isildur's Bane was another puzzle. From what Boromir recalled, Isildur, the son of Elendil the Tall, had died somewhere in the North following the War of the Last Alliance. Faramir said he had been slain by orcs of the Misty Mountains... could they be his bane? Was it a warning of enemies emerging from the North in aid of Sauron?

And the Halfling... what could it be? Boromir's mind wandered to a night out on the Rohirric grass. Théodred and he had shared a bit too much Meduseld mead and had wandered out into the rolling fields outside the city. They lay there for hours, telling each other of their various fables and old wives tales. A favorite of Théodred's was that of the holbytla, the hole-dwellers, half-sized men who lived in holes and hid from the view of others.

"Good luck to see one," the prince had slurred as he lay his golden head on Boromir's stomach, both of them staring at the stars that wheeled overhead, "Tradition holds that if you see one and grant it a good word, it will lead you to something you desire..."

Boromir had laughed, calling it a true old wives tale but Théodred grew serious. "My mother believed it and so do I... the holbytla may not live in this land now but they are out there... Who knows? I may travel to find one and have it lead me to my desire..."

"And what do you desire?" Boromir had asked softly. But Théodred didn't respond and they left it at that as they fell asleep on the cool grass...

"Captain-General?"

The voice shook Boromir from his thoughts and he turned from the parapet to see an old woman, stooped and grey, sleep still clouding her eyes with several rolled up parchments in hand.

"Madam Vila, again my apologies for having you wake at such an early hour-"

The old woman merely waved her hand at him, "Nonsense, at my age sleep comes often enough during that day that night doesn't bring much worry. In any case, here are the maps and charts you requested."

One by one she handed him the rolled up bundles of paper, tied with twine, some looking fresh and white while others looked as yellowed and crisp as fallen leaves. "There are some of the newer maps concerning roads through Anorian and waystations where you might find a fresh horse. Then you have the maps made for King Thengel during his time in Gondor. As for whatever lies beyond the River Isen, I fear most of these maps may be out of date. The most recent being from the reign of Eärnil II. I fear since the fall of the Northern Kingdoms we have little information on what has changed there since."

Boromir took the maps, granting a soft smile, "My thanks anyways, I'm certain I will find things of use even in the old maps. Tell me... what do you know of the North?"

Vila merely gave her head a shake, "Very little I'm afraid. Ever since the fall of Arthedain, scholarly study of Eriador and its regions has fallen to the wayside. I know that there is an old road leading from Rohan into the North, built of old by the men of Arnor. As for people, the only ones I know for certain are the Dunlendings who will no doubt prove more of a hindrance than a help to one so friendly with the Rohirrim. Farther North you may meet similar herdsmen, perhaps some small towns and even maybe some remnants of old Arnor. But nothing for certain I fear."

Boromir nodded solemnly before she quickly held up a hand, "But! If you are headed that way, you may wish to stop at Isengard. The Tower of Orthanc is said to hold a rather sizable library, and being closer to the North may have much more knowledge. Call on Saruman the White and he may be of aid."

He gave a soft smile and a bow, "Thank you, Madam Vila. I will take that into consideration. As always your guidance has proved invaluable..."

"Still the tutor's pet I see," Vila smiled and patted his arm, "I'm always happy to aid one of my old pupils... May your journey be swift and your destination restful."

She gave a small bow of her own and headed back down the lane towards her home. Boromir held the parchments in hand for a moment before placing them delicately into the knapsack he held at his side. Looking up into the brightening sky he sighed and made his way to the High Stables.

The horse he was given was a sturdier horse than what was usually given messengers, due to the supplies he took with him. His name was Rhafring, and was a shaggy though well kept beast with a deep chestnut coat and black main that fell over his eyes at times. The horse gave a snort as though in greeting as Boromir approached him. Boromir gave a smile and a half salute in turn. "At ease," he chuckled as he set his bags down. 

Heavy saddle bags full of food and spare clothes lay beside Rhafring's stall along with a smaller more tightly bound leather bag. Boromir unbuckled it to see it filled with letters, the names written in his father's hand and stamped with the wax seal of the Stewards. One for each of the beacon watches in Anórien, one for the watchmen of the Firien Wood, and many for King Théoden himself.

Rohan... he would rest there for a day or two in Edoras. Get a fresh horse, hear what news there was at the northern marches, and perhaps see Theodred one last time before he truly went into the unknown. The thought made him smile as he strapped another bag onto Rhafring.

The sound of the stable doors slamming open and loud footsteps broke his train of thought. As he turned around he already knew who it was. Faramir was already striding down the stable aisle towards him, a look of sheer fury on his face.

From his disheveled long hair and rumbled shirt and trousers, Boromir could guess he had only just woken up. Faramir stopped just short of his big brother but held his gaze with a tenacity that nearly put Boromir off guard. It scared him how similar his father and brother could look in their fury.

"Why?" Faramir broke the silence with the terse question. "Why did you do it?"

Boromir just strapped on another bag to Rhagfring, "I deemed it necessary."

"Necessary? It was my dream, Boromir! Mine! I had it most, I had it first! You didn't even believe me until you had yours... if you had yours..."

"Careful Faramir," Boromir barked, sternly, "I understand your anger, and know that this wasn't done to spite you. But, do not, call me a liar."

Faramir fumed and moved over to the other side of the horse, to get his brother to look at him as Boromir moved to strap on the horse's harness. "Shall I call you a thief then?

"Faramir-"

"No! No, I will call you that because that is what this is. Theft of my destiny! The Lords of the West sent that dream to me for a purpose! It is my fate to seek Imladris!"

“I had it too, Faramir!” he bellowed back, “The light out of the West, the rhyme, all of it! But I don’t trust it!”

“Why not?”

“Because it seems too good! Don’t you think? The night we lose the east bank of Osgiliath, this… _salvation_ drops into our dreams?”

“It was fated-”

“Nothing is that clean, Faramir!” Boromir cut him off, “This isn’t a tale, this isn’t Beren and Luthien or The Mariner’s Trek! This is war, bloody, long, and hard! Victories do not fall out of the air and they do _not_ come from dreams.”

Faramir sneered, “They come from the Valar! The voice came from the West, Boromir! It came from them.”

At that Boromir felt an anger swell up inside him. Turning away from his bags he faced his brother, throwing up his hands in sheer frustration, “Then where have they been? Where have they been? Where were they at the War of the Last Alliance? Where were they when Minas Ithil fell? Where were they when time after time we were assailed yet beat our foes back? Where were they when gallons of our peoples’ blood was shed along the Anduin to hold back this tide?”

“Perhaps it was not the right time…” Faramir murmured, taken aback by his brother’s outburst.

“No, Faramir, that is what you do not understand,” Boromir shook his head, “Dreams do not win wars, men do. And I am not willing to gamble your life on a dream…”

At that, Faramir’s eyes flickered, and his fire rekindled, “And you are?”

“Someone must seek out Imladris. While I do not put stock in dreams… this was too much of a coincidence. I am going to look. Nothing more. Nothing less. Then I am riding home.”

“But why not me?”

“Because.”

Silence passed between the brothers for half a minute. Then Faramir broke it, his voice angry and hurt, “You don’t think I could make it…”

“Faramir, I never said-”

“But you thought it! You think it! Poor little Faramir, will end up riding into a river or off a cliff! Time for his courageous big brother to ride off on a great journey and return a hero while Faramir tends the fire and makes sure dinner is ready for his return!”

“Imladris is hundreds of leagues away from us and any of our allies, Faramir!” Boromir rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger, “Through wilderness and hostile territory-”

“I’ve done my duty in the forests of Ithilien, Boromir, I know how to live in a forest-”

“Without aid? Without secret caches or hideouts? This will be _true_ wilderness, Faramir. Arnor perished long ago and has left _nothing_ in its wake.”

“You think me weak.”

“I doubt your ability to survive this journey.”

“A weakness.”

“We all have weaknesses Faramir!”

“Except you, right? Except for glorious Boromir, valiant Warden of the White Tower, our fearless Captain-General who has proved his worth time and time again, and now goes out on a path that any weaker man would surely perish from!”

“Enough, Faramir.” This time, Boromir’s voice was stern, steely, one not of Boromir, brother of Faramir, but of Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor. “This is not up for debate. I am going. That is final. I do not do this to spite you but I do it because it is what must be done. What _you_ must do is hold our defenses till I return. It may be I go to find nothing, and so your deeds will prove more valiant. But regardless, I am not asking but telling you. You say I am the fearless Captain-General, so be it. Let me invoke my authority and command you, Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to hold the river crossings and hinder the enemy until my return. Am I clear?”

Faramir was silent again, his anger cooled like a heated blade thrust into water, no longer fiery but hardened. He gave a small bow, “My apologies, sir, I let my mouth get away from me. I will obey your command.”

Boromir’s face softened and he reached out a hand to put onto his brother’s shoulder, “No doubt you will prove the greatest commander the crossings have seen in some time. I would not trust this post with anyone else.”

But Faramir’s face showed no sign of acceptance, merely cool professionalism, “May I be dismissed to go about my duties, sir?”

That nearly broke Boromir, then and there. He was going away. He wanted his brother to see him off by name, not by title. But he was now tired, the early morning air seeped into his skin and made him wish he could return to his chambers to sleep, rather than set off on a journey that might have no purpose. 

Resigned, he gave a quiet nod and Faramir turned about on his heel before striding out of the stable with purpose. Anger and sadness fought in Boromir for a while. Part of him desired to pursue his brother, explain to him, reconcile with him.

 _No_ , said the other part, _the road is long and we must start. You can make it up to him on your return..._


End file.
